


and in the moment hanging on to you

by telanaris



Series: Arcana One-Shots [21]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Begging, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gender Neutral Self Insert Fics, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Modern AU, Multi, NSFW, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Nude Photos, Nudity, Self-Insert Fics, Sensory Deprivation, Sexting, Smut, Spoilers for Book XXI, Touch-Starved, endgame spoilers, handjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-12-30 09:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18312953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: Julian reaches for the pleasure, vibrating with it, straining against the edges of his body like a supernova about to dawn.------------A collection of (mostly) self-insert fics I wrote as part of an event I ran on Tumblr. Please note, some works will have spoilers for the end of Julian's route. SFW/NSFW noted in chapter titles.





	1. same string (NSFW)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a request on Tumblr (Anon wanted to play with Julian's tiddies and I don't blame them)
> 
> Julian x Reader, Julian x You (Reader is Gender Neutral; no gendered pronouns are used.)

_“Aa—ahhh, mmn, oophfuck—no, nonono please! Don’t stop!”_

A plaintive wail fills Julian’s throat, a cry of desperation and petulant disappointment. The touch goes just as softly as it came: without warning. Blindfolded as he is, Julian can’t even see it. But Julian knows by now that nothing, no bargaining nor pleading, will bring it back. Not before you’re ready to touch him again.

But  _fuck_ , sometimes he’d swear his chest is wired directly to his groin, despite the number of autopsies he’d witness that would suggest, scientifically, this cannot be the case. Your hand lowers—no, not the hand, just a finger—and brushes not Julian’s skin but his hair, the faint ones that circle his nipple, disturbing them just enough to leave Julian tingling and bucking of the bed for more. 

You’ve teased him so much already. His nipples are pink, pert and swollen as rosehips. Every touch to them—every pinch, every scratch, every faint brush—deepens the flush of Julian’s arousal, sends a rush of blood to his dick which stands at attention between his legs, utterly untouched but twitching with enthusiasm.

“ _Please,_ ” Julian begs. Such cries are usually in vain, but you relent just a little—forefinger and thumb close over his nipple in a tight little pinch that leaves him hissing and heaving, back arching off the bed.

Both thumbs, then—one pad for each peak—press to pink skin and roll the bud beneath them, slowly, roughly. Julian squeezes his eyes shut and behind them sees colors he’s not sure really exist. He’s still hovering above that mattress, not quite on it; his heels are digging into the sheets, pressing his hips and chest upward as his head and shoulders ground him near the headboard. But each swirl of your fingers against him ratchets the pressure in his thighs tighter; mid-air, his hips tremble. When you pinch with both hands at the same time his hips buck, fucking nothing, seeking friction they won’t find; the sound he makes his filthy, breathy, nearly as pitiful as the whine of a dying animal. Julian feels his groin clench, cock twitch; feels the wet bead of precum that drips onto his stomach and begins to slide steadily upward, following gravity to his chest.

Colors—stars, whole nebulas—explode behind Julian’s eyes, and in all that vast darkness where he waits coiled tight for next touch, he can hear you cursing lightly to yourself under your breath, in awe of him. 

“Close?” 

One word, but enough for Julian to catch your drift. He can feel his blush rise to his cheeks. ‘ _Close_.’ You sound so surprised, but it’s not like this is the first time. Julian takes his lip between his teeth, then nods his head.

“Yeah—yes, I’m—darling, please….”

He can feel your breath first, hot and moist against him, and so he keens before you’ve even got your mouth around him in anticipation of the tightness, the wetness, the heat. While your other hand works the other side of his chest, squeezing his pec, fingers digging into the muscle, you take him between your teeth and lightly nibble, drawing your teeth against him. Tugging. Sometime’s he’d swear his chest is wired directly to his groin—each tug of your teeth on his nipple draws his hips upward, too, as though they’re all attached to the same string, puppet-like. 

Then your mouth—the warmth—it goes, leaves him sensitive. Wet and hard enough, like he can feel every dull breeze that stirs in the bedroom, stroking his dick, his chest. But two fingers find the spit-slicked nipple and make the wind into nothing: they circle, smooth and slippery against him, and then there’s breath on the other side of his chest—dampness, and a tongue darting out, flicking against him—and Julian’s mind goes blank.

He’s begging, he’s pleading—he can feel his mouth forming the words but he’s not sure they make any sense. He’s not even sure what language he’s speaking in, really, but whether its Nevivon or not it’s encouragement enough: you take his nipple into your mouth and suck. Behind the blindfold he can imagine the way you’re looking at him, the focus in your eyes, your cheeks hollowing. Rough tongue curls over him once, then again; Julian reaches for the pleasure, vibrating with it, straining against the edges of his body like a supernova about to dawn.

This is what tips him over the edge: you wrap an arm around him, hold his torso aloft off the bed, and lick his swollen tit with such determination he can feel the tip of your nose pressing against his skin. “Yes, yes, _please yesyesyes—_ ”

A rush like an unbound river, like a dying star, light glittering on water—his body shakes like water under wind—thrusting his hips as he spills (where? into nothing, into air; cuming, cock untouched) and squirts but all his perception still spiraling around your mouth on him, your tongue over him, sending his legs and his arms into fits as his pleasure swallows him up… only your tongue ties him to the world, saves him from drowning it in. 


	2. smudged ink (SFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a request on Tumblr: "Julian has a smudge of ink on his cheek and he hasn’t noticed."
> 
> Julian x You, Julian x Reader (reader is gender neutral.)
> 
> Very light spoilers for Julian's upright route below.

Once a week, you closed the shop and went out foraging for inventory. Although you stocked many rare ingredients that could only been bought from traveling merchants, there were just as many herbs and powders and remedies that could be made from the plants surrounding Vesuvia, much of it not far from the city at all. Today had been busy. In the summer, the forest was full of growing things that might be used to make a poultice or a tincture, or a meal; you and Muriel needed every hour of sunlight you could get. Only when twilight descended did you return to the city, one basket tied to your back, the other balanced against your hip, both equally laden. 

The lights were still on in the shop. Inside, you could see Julian through the beaded curtain in the card room. He had the end of a quill between his teeth, and he was staring at the parchment laid out on the table in front of him. As you approached, you caught a glimpse of what he was working on: inventory lists, Salim’s drawings, architectural renderings, maps of where exactly in the city the new aqueducts were going to be constructed. Julian didn’t even notice you approach; he ran his hand through his hair, eyes fixed on the work, mumbling to himself. 

You placed the baskets carefully on one of the display cases, then went to him. When you entered, the beaded curtain rattled as you parted it, and Julian jumped in his seat.

A smile smoothed away his shock. “There you are,” he said, warmly. “I was starting to worry. The moon’s already risen.”

“I could say the same for you,” you replied, wryly, coming to stand beside him. Your hand smoothed over the drawings on the table. “Julian, it’s late. How long have you been working?”

“…Not  _too_  long,” Julian said, but it wasn’t very convincing. His eyes slid back to the work in front of him, then he added, darkly, “Or not long enough, anyway. These plans aren’t going to finish themselves, and I promised Nadia I’d have them in her hands before we left at the end of the week.”

You made a noncommittal noise. It would be inconvenient, if Julian wasn’t able to finish the work he’d promised before the two of you left town, but you thought Nadia would like it far less if Julian worked himself to death trying to hand over the work on time. Releasing the paper, you brought your hand instead to Julian’s shoulder and squeezed it. The night was warm; even with the window open and the breeze coming in off the ocean, he was sweating through his clothes.

“There was a lot of good stuff in the forest today,” you say, abruptly changing tactics. “For the shop, but for the kitchen, too. Muriel has really sharp eyes. Look at all the different berries we found…”

Most of them are still in the basket, but you’d stashed a few in the loose pockets of your apron, so that you could snack on them as you walked back to the shop. You pulled a few out now. They shone like little jewels, all sorts of colors, summer’s bounty: corbezzoli, nespoles, elder-, dogwood-, and buckthorn berries. 

“Try one?” you ask, picking out one of the plumpest looking berries and holding it out to him.

Julian leaned forward, opened his mouth invitingly so that you could place the berry, gently, on his tongue. He closed his mouth, chewed once, then his eyes rolled back in his head; he groaned obscenely around the fruit, closing his eyes. “Mmm. That  _is_  really good.”

It was, but not quite good enough for one berry to justify that reaction. You frowned, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck. “Have you eaten at all today?”

Julian scoffed. “Of course.” But then his brow furrowed, and he corrected himself. “Maybe. I mean, I must have…”

That almost surely meant he hadn’t. Knowing Julian, he’d probably posted up down here as soon as you’d walked through the door, and hadn’t moved from the spot all day—or, he’d only moved to make himself more coffee, which (you’d convinced him by now) did  _not_ count as eating. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows; his forearms were smeared with ink from pressing up against the paper all day. Some of it had even found its way to his face, just below the corner of his mouth. 

“You’ve got ink on your face.”

“I’ve what?”

You licked your thumb, then gently took his chin in your hand, tilting it up. The warm glow of the shops light shone beautifully on the planes of his face. Gently, you ran the wet pad of your thumb against his chin, wearing away the ink until the skin was unmarked. “Better,” you said, with a satisfied smile, then swooped down to press a kiss to his chin in the spot you’d just wiped clean.

Distracted and determined to keep at his work though he may have been, Julian didn’t let the kiss end there; he tilted his head back to kiss you properly, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. It wasn’t particularly deep, or passionate, just a soft and tender hello; one of your favorite kinds of kisses, the kind Julian sighs into, the one he always greets you with at the end of the day when you find each other again. He mumbled against your mouth, warm and content:

“Hello, darling.”

“Hello, Julian,” you replied, stroking his cheek as you pull back. “Take a break? I know you want to get this done, but it’s going to be hard to do that on an empty stomach. Let’s go down to the Rowdy Raven, get a meal.” You know he won’t be able to relax until he gets out of the house; his hands will be itching to get back to work if you stay here, where the papers are all so close.

“Dangling temptations in front of me,” he said, a softly mumbled accusation, even as he stares dreamily into your face. “I’d kill for a cold tankard of ale right now. It’s sweltering.”

“You don’t need to kill for it,” you tease him, bending to press one last kiss to his forehead. “Come on. Barth will be happy to see you. We haven’t been down there in awhile, and I’m sure the band is missing their best vile player.”

Julian takes your hand in his—the same one that cleaned his face—and answers your kiss with one of his own, his lips brushing gently against the fingers that cleaned the ink from his face. “Alright. I’ll go. But not for Barth,” he added, looking up at you, “and not for the band.”

It’s clear what he means—he’s doing it for you—but you can’t resist the chance to tease him. And anyway, he really shouldn’t need you to tell him that he ought to eat, to take care of himself. No matter; you’ll get there one day. Being together makes the both of you better. Julian makes you brave, funny, happy, bright….

“You’re right,” you say, solemn and serious. “We’re doing it for your stomach. Now get out of that chair and let’s get going, before you waste away.”


	3. cruel, darling (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr: modernAU Julian reacting to MC sending him nudes.
> 
> Modern AU, Julian x Apprentice (GN!Apprentice, referred to as 'they')  
> Not terribly NSFW but I'm tagging it as such just to be safe.

It had been a busy week at the hospital. Winter had announced itself in Nevivon quite loudly and violently with a blizzard that had dumped snow on them for more than a day. Even now, several days later, the roads were barely clear, and narrowed with slush; many of them froze again overnight. 

The beginning of winter was usually a special time for Julian and his beloved. Julian could still remember the first time they’d come to Nevivon: their first winter, their first snow; first snowball fights, first hot cocoa; first time Julian had dragged his love into the snow and pressed kisses to their nose and cheeks, reddened by the cold. Ever since then the first snow had been a special time of year for them, celebrated with pleasant strolls and even more pleasant nights, stretched out beside the hearth as their woolen socks dried over the fireplace screen. But this year the snow had come on so fast no one had really been prepared for it; all week the hospital had dealt with people who had been injured in hideous automobile accidents, slipped and fell on the ice outside their homes, and even a few cases of hypothermia. 

In short, Julian hadn’t seen much of his partner at all… and last night, when he’d arrived home (terribly late, and ready to collapse with exhaustion) it had been clear (no matter how they had tried to hide it) that they were upset with him. Or, at least, that they were upset to have seen so little of him, in this time of the year that was so special to them.

He hoped— _hoped_ —that would change tonight, but it was never a sure thing. The hospital was often chronically understaffed, and Julian wasn’t one to refuse to help someone who needed him; he often got caught up, lingering late, exchanging ideas with his colleagues or giving advice to his residents, or pouring over a medical journal. Julian never regretted going into medicine, but there were definitely times when it kept him away from home. Today, though, all he had on his schedule was consultations with new patients, and follow up appointments with patients who were already recovering from their surgeries. It was as close to a regular office day as he ever got, and it meant he should be home in a timely fashion, sometime around six or seven.

It also meant that—unlike the days when he was rushing from surgery to surgery, or teaching a class of students—he was able to keep his phone on him, and check it fairly regularly.

Which his better half surely knew when they texted him at 11:36 in the morning.

At the time, Julian was consulting with a patient who was due for a procedure in two weeks, but he’d felt his phone buzz against his leg. As soon as the appointment was over, he leaned back in his chair, propped his legs up on his desk, and pulled out his phone.

He smiled at the sight of his love’s name on the lockscreen. Maybe they hadn’t been as upset as Julian had thought. Julian settled back in his chair, wrinkling his white surgeon’s coat beneath him as he swiped right and opened the message.

_Fleshsoftlightliptuggedbetweenteeth—_

Julian sat up so quickly he nearly fell out of the chair; his reaction sent the rolling wheels out from under him and it was only a deft hand snatching the armchair at the last second that stopped him from falling onto his ass. He’d locked the screen immediately, and now he held the phone face-down against his leg. He’d only stolen a glance before he’d realized what exactly it was he’d received, but that had been enough. His chest felt tight; his neck felt warm. Already he was clenching his legs.

He glanced at the wall—11:48. A brief thought crossed his mind and he immediately dismissed it; he took his job much too seriously to risk jeopardizing it by trying to squeeze one out between his appointments. 

But….

But his receptionist never sent anyone in before their scheduled appointment time, and usually it was some minutes after that—paperwork always took a few minutes, insurance cards scanned, pharmacies noted… he had, at least, a few minutes. To look.

Breathing heavily, he turned the phone over in his hand, and unlocked it with the pad of his thumb.

They had not sent one picture; they had sent several. They were wearing the sweater Julian had bought them when they’d first moved to Nevivon (Vesuvia’s warm clime meant they’d arrived without the warm clothes they needed) but nothing else. Elegant hands lifted the woolen hem, dragging it over stomach, then chest… peeling back from the beautiful torso Julian knew so well. 

Julian shuddered. His hands shook as he tapped the text box, and the keyboard slid up; this, at least, hid a part of the picture from him. He typed hastily and set the message off.

11:49 a.m. _cruel, darling_

He was blushing in earnest, now; he could feel it in his cheeks. He left his phone face-down on the desk then crossed his office to the mini fridge in the corner, pulling out a bottle of water and struggling to open the cap. As he wrenched it free and took his first sip, thankful for the feeling of the cold in his mouth, down his throat, he heard the aggressive hum of his phone vibrating against the desk.

He nearly spilled half the bottle of water down his front in his eagerness to get back to it.

11:50 am _who? me?_

11:50am _or you, for keeping me waiting when I want you so badly?_

Then an image. The reception in his office was crap—Julian watched, cursing it, mouth dry again despite the water, as the picture slowly downloaded byte by byte. 

A low moan slipped past his lips; he brought his free hand up to cover his mouth, then stared wide-eyed at the picture. There was no sweater now, no coy grin or bit lip. Just legs spread, their hand buried in the meat of their thigh to pull it wider. Evidence: in the red, wet flush of their sex, and in the tight grip of their hand,  _I want you so badly, this badly, look at what you do to me._

Julian set the water down then brought the phone between his hands, using both thumbs to type.

11:53 a.m. _I can’t leave_

Then, because that sounded wrong—either like an excuse, or like he didn’t  _want_ to leave—he kept typing:

11:53 _i’m sorry I can’t cancel these appointments_

11:53 _but Ill be done around 6_

11:54 _I’ll be homke as soon.  As I can_

No reply. Then, three dots started flashing in the corner of the message; Julian stood, half-bent over his phone, so caught in suspense he did not even sit. His thumbs hovered uneasily over the screen—then the message came.

11:56 _so late :(_

11:57 _think of me until then, ilya_

Then another photo—this one a much bigger file than the rest. Julian looked at the clock on the wall only for a second, judged the time he had left against the time it was taking the photograph to download. He’d need at least a few minutes to collect himself, before the next appointment came in—

“—ahh! oooh, fuck, Ilya—!”

It wasn’t a photo but a video, a video with sound, and there they were—in their shared bed at home, rumpling the sheets beneath their feet, back arching off the bed—making little moans and pleasure sounds, bucking into their own touch, the sweater rolled up around their armpits,  _“—ilya!”_

“Doctor Devorak? Your new patient is ready.”

He locked the phone reflexively, looking up at his receptionist, sure he was six shades of beet red and then some. Tight-lipped, hardly able to meet her gaze, he slid open one of the drawers of his desk and tossed his phone in, then promptly shut it. “That’s—that’s good, that’s—wow, they’re a bit early, eh?”

Locking the phone up was the only thing that kept him sane and focussed throughout the day, but he hadn’t turned it off; it kept buzzing, vibrating against the wood of his desk. It didn’t even matter if the messages were from his love; he couldn’t see the phone, so they may as well have been. Every time he heard the phone go off he thought of parted lips, spread thighs, eyes looking at him with deepest longing….

As luck would have it, his five o’clock cancelled that day. 

At home, they must have heard him pulling in the driveway. When he opened the front door (scraping his key against the lock with such unsteady hands, such haste that he suspected he’d marred the paint) they were waiting for him, standing in the foyer in nothing but the sweater, looking at him with mischievous delight.

They squealed with delighted laughter when Julian picked them up by the knees, tossed them over his shoulder, and carried them into the bedroom.


	4. halfway to Nevivon (SFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr: Julian having a moment where he realises that he wants to marry MC prompt
> 
> Julian x Reader, Julian x You  
> SFW (but spoilers for Book XXI)

It takes Julian three weeks at sea—halfway to Nevivon—to realize Pasha is right. 

The day before they’d left Vesuvia (before Julian had raced you to the docks, before you’d left safe harbor on Mazelinka’s ship) Pasha had come to his clinic, just before he closed up. “I have something for you.” When she opened her palm, a delicate ring sat in its center. 

Julian had sucked in his breath. “Pasha, you can’t give me this,” he said, shaking its head. “It’s all we have left of her, and I gave it to you specifically because—”

“It’s a  _family_  heirloom, Ilya, it’s not  _mine_ ,” she said, taking his hand and slipping the ring on his finger. It was comically small for him; it got caught at the second knuckle. “I think Mom would have wanted you to have it. Or, y’know, for our kids to have it. And so, since we’re taking this trip… I don’t know, I thought you might find out you need it.”

Julian stared at her blankly. “Need it for what?”

Portia only pursed her lips, eyes wide with giddy mischief. Then Julian understood. 

“Pasha, I can’t,” he said, panicking. “What if I’m reading them all wrong? What if they don’t have any interest in a commitment like that? What if—“

“Ilya,” Portia cut him off, “we all saved the world together. I think you’re ‘reading’ is fine. And no pressure! I just thought, well… it’s a long voyage, to Nevivon.” She shrugged, with a grin, making her way to the door. “You never know. It might come in handy.”

As much as Julian didn’t want to admit it to Portia, he’d been thinking about that conversation ever since. He kept his mother’s ring in the cabin—he didn’t want to risk carrying it around during the day—but sometimes at night he would feel for the fine gold in the dark, Portia’s words echoing though his mind as you slept soundly beside him without a clue. Marriage—was that something you’d want, Julian wondered? Hell, for that matter, was it something  _he_  wanted? For so long he had believed he’d never get the chance; he hadn’t really considered what it would feel like, loving someone this deeply, wanting to bind himself to them with jewelry and ceremony and promises. 

Halfway to Nevivon, Julian finds his answer. 

There’s nothing special about the moment, not really. Three weeks at sea and everyone has settled into a comfortable familiarity; it would be monotonous, were it not for the good company. Days are spent sailing, Mazelinka keeping her eye on the horizon, reading the winds, calling commands as needed to adjust the sails and shift course. Nights are spent playing cards, sharing drinks, swapping stories… marveling at the skies above as you head further south, closer to Nevivon. 

Three weeks at sea has changed you. You’ve taken to sailing as easily as Malala takes to the skies; everyone on the ship is a great teacher, and more than willing to help you learn. When Mazelinka’s crew teases you, calling you “a pretty good pirate—for a landlubber,” you give back as good as you get. By the end of the first week you’re scrambling up the rigging just as confidently as Julian. 

You’re a little leaner, and greater definition has come i to your arms from adjusting all the rigging. (Julian has definitely noticed. It’s been no secret that he finds your new strength exciting, but crowded on the ship with Mazelinka’s crew, there’s not much you can do about it—there’s not exactly a lot of privacy.)

And it’s like this—out at sea, surrounded by nothing but the vast, inconstant, magnificent ocean, glittering in the sun—surrounded by the people who love Julian, and who are coming to love you in turn—that Julian comes to the same realization Portia made nearly a month ago. This is his family: Portia and Mazelinka, Pepi curled and purring in his lap and Malak soaring on the same trade winds that fill the sails. And you. 

You are Julian’s family too, now. Just as beloved. Just as irreplaceable. And just like he can’t imagine a future in which Portia is no longer his sister… Julian can’t imagine any desirable future for himself that doesn’t include you in it. 

So he takes the ring out from his bags. Carries it up to the Crow’s Nest one night, careful to make sure it doesn’t fall out of his pocket as he climbs. Up here is one of the only places on the boat to get any precious privacy, if only because it’s too small for more than two. With Julian’s long limbs, it’s barely big enough for one—but the two of you always manage to fit, pressing close to accommodate each other, your legs across Julian’s lap. 

Above, the stars are magnificent. The night is crystal clear and the constellations seem so close—so bright. 

Julian watches your face in the starlight, and puts his hand in his pocket. 

“Listen, um,” he begins, then hates himself—he’s always witty and silver-tongued except for precisely when he needs to be—but forges forward anyway, despite the embarrassed heat in his cheeks and the sweat on his brow. “I know this—this is kind of a crazy idea, maybe, but I just—I’ve been wondering…”

You turn your eyes from the stars and look at him. Julian looks so nervous, running his hand anxiously over your knee, unable to meet your eyes. “Sometimes your crazy ideas are the best ones,” you said, with a reassuring grin. “Tell me?”

But instead of saying anything at all, he only takes his hand out of his pocket and opens it. Inside, you can barely make out the glint of a slender ring. 

Your body empties of breath. Is he—?

“I mean—I don’t—“ Julian begins, hastily, already backpedaling, “I know, some people don’t really believe in that kind of thing? And we haven’t talked about it, so it’s bold of me to presume, but… but I love you,” he says, and he’s short of breath—anxious, you can tell—but he’s looking at you with hope and longing, and he runs a hand through your hair when he asks, so softly you can barely hear him over the snap of the wind in the sails:

“Will you marry me?”

It’s so unexpected, all you can do is stare at him in shocked silence. Naturally, this does nothing to ease his nerves. He starts rambling again. 

“Oh, no—this was a bad idea, wasn’t it? I should have waited—somewhere you could throw a Salty Bitter in my face, or storm out, run for the hills—gods, you’re  _trapped_  on this boat with me, I wasn’t even thinking, but Pasha said—“

But Portia was right. Julian was not reading you wrong. 

You’re too overwhelmed to speak, but you can’t let him go on chastising himself. In lieu of an answer you pull him close, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, crushing his mouth against yours. He melts against you, moaning into the kiss with gratitude and relief, drawing you over his lap. 

When you part for breath, Julian trembles, like the light of the stars overhead. 

You place your mouth beside his ear, whisper sweetly as he slips the ring on your finger:  _‘yes, yes, of course, Julian Devorak, I will marry you.’_


	5. Ilyushka (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr: Hey! For the fic prompt day: steamy moment where Julian cums after MC or Aredhel calls him by his real name very tenderly (ilyushka)
> 
> julian x gn!reader, julian x you (but told mostly from julian’s pov)

Julian wakes up the way he loves best: with his back against your chest, your spine following the curve of his spine, two twinned s-shapes folder together. His thighs rest against your lap. You hold him, and he feels loose and warm and comfortable in your arms.   
  
Or—not so loose. His ass fits so snugly into the curve of your hips… your gentle breathing stirs the hairs on the back of his neck, and your cheek is warm when you press it against his skin, burying your face in his curls.

Your voice is hoarse from sleep; your words rumble in your chest (against his back, where Julian fan feel the fuzzy, sleepy hum of them.) 

“Mmm, Ilya? R’y’alright?”  
  
Lazy flame licking its way, slumber to wakefulness—to skin to skin, side by side, flush, strong arms around him—to arousal. He doesn’t necessarily mean to do it, to fall out the bottom of something cozy and homelike and land somewhere lecherous. It’s just that it’s always so easy in the mornings, in the soft light, before his anxiety kicks in and his thoughts start chasing themselves in circles. It’s so easy for him to get turned on when you’re holding him, body still heavy and vague as it shakes of sleep, until suddenly the touch that once contented him is not enough and he wants to be touched more roughly, touched  _more._

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,”  Julian replies. “Just…”

Just— _what?_  What is he to say?

_‘Just straining against my pants, already, and nothing more than your arms around me—and you, you’re still half asleep.’_

Not that—he can’t say that. But Julian can’t hide, either. This is not your first honey-slow morning in bed. It is neither the first (nor, Julian suspects, the last) morning that he’s woken up hard and needy. And by now, he has been with you so long that he knows better than to think he masked wholly the note of excitement in his voice when he’d answered your question. 

Five fingertips spread across Julian’s skin until your palm is flat against his abdomen; his muscles twitch under your hand. Even this alone—! Your palm smooths across his skin, and Julian holds his breath, filled only with the thought of how low your palm will dare to go. 

It doesn’t get far. Doesn’t even reach the band of his lounge pants. But then you hum thoughtfully, pulling your head out of his hair to ask him:

“D’you wanna get off?”

Julian pulls his lip between his teeth. Then he nods, careful not to bang his head against yours as he does so. 

Another hum behind him; your hand palms lower, fingertips toying with (but not yet sinking beneath) the band of his pants. 

“Sorry, Ilya. Didn’t hear you. What was that?”

Is it begging you want? The thought sends a twitch through Julian’s cock—he’ll beg. He’ll beg so nicely, however you like… with you, it is worth it. No matter how long you make him wait, you always give him what he needs in the end. 

“Yes,” Julian croaks with his sleep-worn voice. “Yes, please, are you—will you—?”

Julian is in luck; this morning, you are generous. You pull your hand from his stomach and hold it, cupped, in front of Julian’s face; he spits into it. Then he pushes his pants down his hips and you take him in hand. 

Tightness pushes the sleep out of Julian’s bones. Barely awake as he is, the pleasure doesn’t come all at once. It builds. You coat him in his own spit and he presses his ass back against your hips, grinding between your body and your hand, whimpering lightly. Each stroke of your hand lifts him to higher heights. Cock leaks and your stroke slickens, and Julian fights against the mounting moan swelling in his chest, and snaps his hips up towards your hand. 

You sigh sweetly against his neck and he can feel it—the warmth, your breath disturbing his hair—and it’s soft and he always wants you this close—his eyes roll back. Then your lips brush his ear:

“You’re so pretty like this, in the morning,” you whisper. “Pink as a rose, dawn making all the copper in your hair look like caught flame.”

Julian curses. His hips lose their rhythm. He won’t last long if you keep talking about him like that, comparing him to flowers and bright dawns and treating him like something precious, beautiful, beloved. 

 _‘But you are those things,’_  he can hear you telling him. Not really  _you_ , only the  _you_  in his head—the pieces of you that have gotten stuck in him—all the times you’ve told him he’s worthy and brilliant replayed so many times until he believed it. He can hear you correcting him as if he’d spoken aloud:  _‘Precious, beautiful, beloved—you are every one of those things to me.’_

His breath shakes loose of him. Already Julian’s body is clenching, shuddering—so easy in the mornings. This mouth is so dry forming the words is a struggle: “Please, squeeze a little harder—tighter…”

You oblige, narrowing the tunnel of your fingers, slipping the ring of them over and off then back on the head of his cock—Julian’s body tightens around his core, his chin falling nearly to his chest. You pull him back—pulls his head up with a tug of your teeth on his ear, which only leaves him crying out, his body twisting in your arms (pleasure cooking, spiraling, spring-like preparing to release) as you run your tongue of the marks your teeth left, tip of tongue dipping into ear—

“I’m—m’close,” Julian mananges (barely) as the rhythm of his hips starts to stutter again, chasing the feeling of your fingers. “Not gonna last much longer.”

“Then finish,” you say simply. Your breath is warm on his ear—still tingling from teeth and tongue—and your hand moves faster on his cock, the pad of your thumb circling the head. Julian whined, snaps his hips up faster, faster—and then you dip your head to nibble gently on the skin of his neck—he’s still gasping, chasing his breath when you say:

“Come. Come for me, Ilyushka.”

There is nothing—not your hand on his cock, not your tongue in his ear—better than the shape of his name in your mouth, called so tenderly, so affectionately. 

He comes with a cry, hips stuttering  and snapping as he spills over your fingers, his stomach, the sheets—sticky and spent but  _good_ , so good, and when the pressure releases he feels, again, exhausted and loose and warm. He runs so cool—your skin is like a furnace against his, like you keep some of the sun with you always. 

You kiss the back of his neck. “I’ll be right back, let me just go grab something so you can clean up.”

But before you can go, Julian’s hand finds your arm, holding it fast around him. 

“Not yet,” he protests, gently, and you relax against him, sinking back into bed. “Soon—in a few minutes—but this is nice. Don’t go just yet.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr, where I am @4biddenleeches:  
> Anonymous asked: Imagine Julian being touch-starved and, in the reversed end, it being so much worse to the point where he nearly cries when the Apprentice puts a hand on his shoulder, and sobs into them when they gently pull him into a hug Idk just some food for thought
> 
> BELOW:  
> reversed!julian x you, reversed!julian x reader  
> reversed ending spoilers, angst, hurt/comfort (no lemons, just a very sad and touch starved julian)

“This can’t be real. You would _never_ —and it’s been too long, it just can’t be.”

There is no way of saying exactly how long you’ve spent in the Hanged Raven with Julian. Time doesn’t pass the way it used to; its slippery, and harder to keep track of. You can’t even say for sure whether it has been weeks, or years. Indeterminate of length though it may be, however, you can mark it by milestones:

This is the third time since Scout had led you to his side that Julian had panicked, and talked himself into believing you aren’t real.

The first time, it had hurt you so badly. You asked yourself: why was Julian pushing you away? Was he even doing it on purpose, or was he sabotaging himself self-consciously? _Did it matter either way?_ You thought of that night on the docks, what felt like an eternity ago, Julian’s composure crumbling under the rolling, crushing weight of his guilt: “I can’t.” You thought of all the time he had spent here in this half-cursed tavern before you found him; vast, uncountable time, lost to loneliness and suffering. The first time he forgot you—forgot himself—you forgave him and, with great patience, talked him down from his denial.

The second time he’d done it, the hurt had been much worse. You had thought this was over—that you had both put it behind you. And yet, again, Julian had acted as though he did not know you—as though all the time you had spent caring for him had been nothing but a dream, an illusion.

This is the third time.

Julian paces across the tavern, his wings beating restlessly. Not for the first time, you realize how cramped he is in here—there isn’t really anywhere he can stretch to his full wingspan. He shakes his head, grimacing, baring sharp teeth.

“You’ve been here too long,” Julian says, turning to sneer at you. “The _r_ _eal_ you might stay for a little while, but no one would _ever_ stay with me as long as you have. I’m a monster—a demon. The- the things that you—if anyone ever found out the way you’d touched me…”

His voice pitches higher, a little hysterical. You take a step closer, stretching your hands towards him. “Julian, where is this coming from?” you ask him, gently. “What is this really about?”

Your fingers just barely brush his fingers; Julian bares his teeth and hisses, flinching away from you. His feathers ruffle. When they stand on end, he is a massive, hulking shadow; he becomes double his size.

“I don’t know what he’s planning for you,” Julian accuses, teeth glinting. “The Devil wouldn’t give me an inch, not unless he planned to take a foot, and with you!” Julian whirls on you, pointing a talon at your face accusingly. “With you, _oh,_ he gave me…”

But it’s too big to talk around, the feeling of being with you these past (weeks? months? years?) dreams, and Julian’s words fail him. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from you. Out of the corner of his mouth, Julian tosses his dismissal cruelly over his shoulder:

“I’m sure he’s got some twisted plan to use you, whoever or whatever you are, to torment me—to break me. Well, I won’t be a part of it any longer. All are welcome here—but not you. Get out.”

It’s like having cold water thrown in your face. But this is not the first time Julian has forgotten—or refused, out of the blue, to believe—that you are real, that you are with him; that after everything, you still love him. You’ve had to convince him before. You know, by now, what does the trick.

Julian is no longer looking at you. He’s moved into the corner of the tavern, nearer to the hearth—the furthest point in the room from the door, as if to clear you a path to go. He’s crouched on his grey, scale-covered legs; the talons on his toes make gouged marks in the wood floor. His hand cover his head, as if to prevent any possibility that he might catch a glimpse of himself in the shattered mirrors that line the walls.

Because he is not looking at them, he does not see your reflection mirrored back at him, growing larger as you approach. Gently you reach out and place a hand on his shoulder.

Julian hisses again in warning. “ _Leave me.”_ He flinches from your touch, but can’t quite bring himself to pull away entirely. You hold your hand steady on his shoulder, feeling Julian’s body warm to your touch, just like it always has.

A choked sob escapes him, half-caw as his bargain with the Devil tears at his throat. “Please… please go,” Julian rasps, hardly more than a whisper. “Please, take pity, and leave me alone.”

“I can’t,” you tell him, running your fingers lightly from his shoulder to his neck. Julian gasps, his breath hitching around another sob. “I won’t,” you insist, running your fingers along the back of his head. You sink to your knees behind him, your other hand rising to guide him to face you. “I’m real, Julian. I’m here.”

Julian relents, turning to look at you. His face is pink; his eyes are wet. But he can only hold your gaze for a few seconds before he squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to believe the evidence plain in front of him. A sob shakes him, disturbing all his feathers at once.

“How?” Julian asks, disconsolate and ashamed. “In all that mess out there, how could you have found me? How can you bear to stay with me, _lie_ with me, hideous creature that I am? It’s unnatural, it dangerous for you—”

You stop him with a finger to his lips. Julian actually whimpers a little—he is so starved for touch, even after the time you’ve spent with him, and his mouth is most insatiable part of him—but you only shake your head. You won’t stand to have him call your affection _‘unnatural’_ —it is as natural to you as breathing.

“I found you because I love you,” you tell him, firmly. “Because we are more strongly connected than any Devil’s bargain that currently binds you. I walked across four score twisted kingdoms to find you, and I would have gone twice as far and then farther. I would have died before I gave up looking for you. Whatever you think you are, there is only one thing I care about: _when I’m with you, I am home.”_

Julian stares at you, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, like he’s been slapped. His eyes water.

Hardly more than a breath, with reverence, he whispers your name.

Then he collapses against you, and you sigh in relief—you know he believes you. Julian sobs against your neck and wraps his arms around you. He does not trust himself to hold you tightly (he does not know his full strength) so he only holds you loosely, but presses his skin against yours for maximum contact. No such self-consciousness holds you back; you loop your arms around him and pull him close, pressing your face against Julian’s feathers.

Julian weeps against your cheek. “It is you—you are real. You’re so warm… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. Sometimes, I forget—”

“It’s okay, Julian,” you tell him, running you le hands neatly down the feathers along his spine. “I’m here to remind you. And I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
